


Plainly, Clearly.

by pindenial



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9085861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pindenial/pseuds/pindenial
Summary: "Yuri has never been good with words."Otayuri drabbles that focus on communication.  Porn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Send me to hell in a handcart. I wrote this on the train today. I wrote OtaYuri porn in public because I'm trash and I'm only vaguely sorry. The title comes from my favorite Eavan Boland poem that goes, "Across our day-to-day and ordinary distances We speak plainly. We hear each other clearly.” I'm not sure Yuri and Otabek would be very good at talking about their feelings. Unbeta'd, obviously.

**#1**

It takes Yuri no time at all to realise that Otabek laughs more than he should. ‘Should’ in this case being more than the leather jacket and motorbike and edgy haircut suggest.

He is first subjected to the noise when Yuri and Otabek are tucked inside a café in Barcelona, and a particularly creative swear word is met with a peal of laughter, rich and deep that shatters bone. The only consolation Yuri has to not being able to appreciate it is that Otabek looks about as surprised as Yuri feels.

“You laughed.” Yuri watches the colour dust Otabek’s cheeks and pointedly ignores it.

“You’re funny.” Otabek replies reasonably, the barest hint of a grin making Yuri’s insides do backflips.

(And it’s a fluke, really, the full-bodied reaction to something as inconsequential as a laugh. And much later, when Yuri’s body bows off his bed as he imagines Otabek fisting his dick, voice thick with want, well, that’s a fluke too.)

 

**#2**

Otabek stands before the flower display and struggles.

“I hate flowers,” Yuri says at the NHK cup as he watches Christophe Giacometti receive another bouquet from adoring fans with blatant envy. Yuri takes silver that day, and Chris gets two dozen white roses and fifth position.

Otabek presses all of the money in his wallet into the hand of the astonished florist as he says, “I’ll take them all.”

 

 

**#3**

Yuri has never been good with saying ‘please’. But with one foot hooked round Otabek’s hip and a hoarse “Beka, hurry” pushing him to action, Otabek supposes he does well enough.

 

**#4**

“Hey,” Yuri’s voice drifts from across the room, cutting through Otabek’s thoughts as he pours over a video of Kenjiro Minami’s new Short Program on Youtube. “I didn’t think I still had this.”

“Hmm?” Otabek looks up to find his boyfriend tugging on a tshirt that certainly hasn’t fit the man in five years. Otabek can feel his mouth going dry as Yuri admires his reflection, the supple muscles in his back shifting with each turn. A bare stretch of skin cuts between shirt and sweatpants, exposing a tight midriff in a way Otabek has great difficulty pulling his gaze from.

“What do you think? Fifteen year old me had pretty good taste, right?”

“Yuri,” Otabek has to clear his throat as green eyes jump to meet his in the mirror. Yuri’s cheeks are warm, his smile wicked, and his gaze victorious.

Otabek crooks an eyebrow, bites his lip.

“Yuratchka,” he says, “come here.”

 

 

**#5**

The gaze of a soldier. Otabek sucks in a harsh breath at first contact and those green eyes sharpen, fixed on his face; Yuri watches the crease of Otabek’s brow, the slow bloom and slide of sweat at his hairline. It is the only angle that someone could truly appreciate the Grecian cut of Otabek’s jawline as he strains to control himself. It is a view that Yuri delights in being exclusively his.

Yuri tests him, pushes him and can’t help but grin to feel fingers flex in his hair. Ignoring discomfort, Yuri swallows him down as best he can and just waits, quivering with want.

“Yuri.” It is sighed out with reverence and the blonde lets himself bask in the desire he feels when Otabek meets his steely gaze and begs for permission to move.

 

 

**#6**

“Agape,” Otabek says one quiet morning, out of the blue, as he kisses up Yuri’s thigh.

“Devotion.” Yurio sighs as he cards strong fingers through dark hair with relish. Otabek smiles.

“I think I know something about that.”

 

 

**#7**

Yuri has never been good with words.

“I want to fuck you.” Yuri says and, underneath ruddy cheeks and swollen lips, it comes out a lot like a challenge. A brief moment follows as he watches Otabek’s entire body shudder and maybe he’s misjudged this whole thing, but suddenly Otabek is closing the distance between them, all four paces, and kissing Yuri raw.

 

**#8**

“Don’t play games,” Yuri’s voice is laced with a warning that Otabek has long learned to ignore.

“What games?” Otabek asks innocently as he twists his spaghetti onto his spoon, his shoeless foot pressing tortuously against Yuri’s welcoming crotch beneath their cramped kitchen table.

A quiet moan escapes pink lips and Otabek grins as Yuri’s legs fall open and his eyes fall shut. “ You know I don’t like games, Yuri.”

A breathy laugh and Yuri decides in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness to skip straight to dessert.

 

 

**#9**

“You cannot be serious.” Otabek says and immediately regrets as the cut of Yuri’s jaw, the twist of his mouth suggests that yes, the younger man is indeed being serious. “You can’t really be jealous of the attention I give our cat.”

 

 

**#10**

Yuri’s mouth presses against the warm skin of jaw and cheeks and lips.

“You love me,” he mouths and Otabek whines in response, breath coming in pants as Yuri grabs fistfuls of dark hair and grinds down onto Otabek’s lap. “Beka, you love me.”

Otabek would love Yuri until it ruined him, ruined them both.

“Yes,” comes the reply, thick with need, “yes.” The word is barely an answer, huffed into Yuri’s throat before Otabek is coming with a cry. And Yuri can feel it, in large hands that pull at skin, in eyes that watch, always, as Yuri comes undone above him.

“God.” Otabek breathes in wonder as he presses a thumb against pliant lips that suck him in. “You’re so beautiful, Yuri.” And Yuri is burning up at the edges, his vision white as he comes with a muffled gasp and two fingers curled inside him.

 

 

**#11**

Yuri tries so hard not to care about what others think, and succeeds mostly. Though some of it inevitably sticks. Comparisons to Victor, for example, stick better than they should. Yuri knows that he’s better than Victor was at fifteen. Fully intends to be better than Victor was at nineteen or twenty-five. He also knows that he’s beautiful, like Victor was beautiful, because Yuri himself has seen videos of Victor at seventeen and _aches_ from them. The point where longing meets jealousy and hardens into blind determination.

Because Victor is beautiful, sure, but nobody has ever told him that he has the eyes of a soldier.

Right there, on the bleachers of an ice rink in Barcelona, Otabek has the eyes of a pious man. Patient eyes, like he knows that he is moments from salvation. And as the first chord of his music launches the Russian teenager into movement, Yuri hopes it to be true.

 


End file.
